


Silver Lining

by hoshisora



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindness, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:41:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoshisora/pseuds/hoshisora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is back from the war, discharged honorably for wounds sustained in battle. a war hero, a brave and courageous doctor, a man who sacrificed so much for his country, and yet, alone, friendless, desperate in the streets of the city he used to call home. His friends drift away from him, quietly horrified by the way he never takes off his sunglasses, the constant, light tapping of his cane on the ground, the scars that crisscross and peek out from beneath the shades. Even his own sister tells him that she doesn't want anything to do with him anymore. He knows that the scars where his eyes used to be disgust people. He knows that by the time the month is up, he won't have anywhere to go. No one wants to be burdened with a blind man. </p><p>Then, perhaps, a stroke of luck? He doesn't understand how, but he knows that Sherlock instantly knows everything about him. He doesn't understand, but he knows that he wants to know more about this man, about how he can see everything when John himself can't see anything. So, John takes Sherlock's offer to share a flat, to endure long hours of sometimes beautiful sometimes screechingly bad violin. </p><p>But it's okay, because this blind man has somewhere to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Lining

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING. THERE WILL BE BRIEF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. IF THIS IS A TRIGGER, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS FIC.  
> Uhm. Okay. So this is all based on my imagination. I'm not blind, nor have I ever experienced even temporary blindness, so I'm going to spend one of these days going around with a blindfold. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose vision for the rest of your life, but I'll do my best. Please note that this fic is meant purely for entertainment.  
> Also, this isn't really planned. These chapters are just gonna be written by me on a whim and my grammar and spelling are pretty good, but there will be editing. Minimal editing. But yeah. The plot's just gonna roll along.  
> And as always, disclaimer: these characters don't belong to me.  
> Happy reading!

John's dreams are loud. A painful, eardrum-tearing sort of loud that just blasts through the soul and shakes your bones to dust.

  
He knows that it is a dream. He has had this dream countless times before. And yet, he can't help but feel the adrenaline shoot through his veins, his teeth chattering in his skull as he lies and squints through the dust, waiting for the bullets to stop whizzing over his head so that he can run over and help the man lying on the ground.

His ears are ringing, the high pitched noise stirring up his thoughts until he can't remember anything but his mission. Save the soldiers.

Save the men who lie bleeding in the dust. Some of them scream, the shock not getting to them in time as they see a bloodied finger, a hand, a foot, a whole limb lying too far away. Some of them lie or sit there in silence. Some are young men and they scream for their mothers, their voices cracking as they empty their lungs until their vocal cords are shot. Sometimes literally. Sometimes they're older and their vocal cords aren't as strong. Their cries are quieter but just as agonizing and their faces steadily grow paler and paler as their blood leaks out into dusty puddles in the midst of the desert.

Their eyes are always wide, John thinks. So wide that you can see their pupils dilating as their mouths open in a soundless scream.

John remembers the last soldier he saved. A young man with wide blue eyes. He was quiet, only whimpered as the John rushed over and grabbed a wad of bandage and yelled at him to press it to the hole in his side while he tore at the ragged strips of fabric that were embedded in the broken shards of bone and bleeding flesh that were once a knee. John remembers peering into the young man's eyes, yelling at him over the sound of explosions and gunfire before there's a shooting pain that arcs across his face and suddenly he can't see the vivid, scared blue anymore.

 

John wakes, his chest heaving as his eyes snap open in bed. For a moment, his nightmare continues and he reaches for his eyes, touching them to make sure that they're open. They're open. He knows because he can feel the roughness of his fingers on the soft, gelatinous surface, but why is it all still black? Why is everything black? His fingers brush over the sides of his eyes and where there should be crow's feet, there are only bumpy, ragged scars from the surgeries that restructured his supraorbitals and put his skull back together. Too late to save his eyes, though. But it was amazing that he was even alive. Not a miracle. Just... surprising.

He groans as he shifts his weight onto his right leg. Psychosomatic, he knows full well, for when he ran his fingers over the surface, there were no scars. Unlike his shoulder. The scar branches out in a star-like shape, raised and rough above the surface of his skin. It is ugly and John hates it, but the aching pain no longer bothers him.

His phone is lying close by, a high-tech little thing that John can speak into. He dials Harry, and she picks up briefly. "Hello, Har--" and she is gone. Not even his own sister wants to talk to him. No one wants a blind man, John thinks, slipping the phone into the jacket pocket and feeling its weight rest against his abdomen. I am nothing but a burden and a liability. It's too hard to take care of a blind man.

He has no stomach for breakfast. Rarely does, nowadays. The doctor, at his last visit, told him that he had lost far too many pounds to be healthy. John simply didn't give a damn anymore. He slips his sunglasses on and leaves the flat, cane slipping familiarly into his worn palm.

Closing the door, he hears the sound of another opening somewhere down the hall and recognizes the familiar shuffling of slippers as his landlady's.

"John, dear, I don't want to pry, but..."

"I know. I'll pay soon, I promise."

"John..." her voice is hesitant and it hints and bad news. John pauses with the key still inserted in the door.

"You're been saying that for the past three months now... I don't want to say this, but you can't stay here any longer if I don't have the money by the end of the month."

"The end of the month?" John hears himself say, his voice unbelieving. "That's barely a week!"

"I know, John, and I'm sorry." And with that, she leaves, the pity in her voice hanging in the heavy air.

John hates the pity. He doesn't want to hear the "I'm so sorry" in their voices, the note of relief that they're not like him. Their pity is despicable. 

Sometimes John wishes that the bullet that took his sight had taken a different, more final course.

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHA wow that was a pretty shite start to a pretty shite fic. I dunno. It's been a while since I've written Sherlock fanfiction. But okay. Let's go.
> 
> There will be more! I promise!


End file.
